


A Start To Flying High

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Series: Dancing In Air [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras watches the main circus show, and there's an acrobat who moves like water and air and vines. Courfeyrac finds a new friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Start To Flying High

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the giant blocks of description. I'll make it up to you all with dialogue in the next chapter.

It's dim and stuffy in the main tent, and strangely dark, but the audience files in and takes their seats on the bleachers. The circus is small, and the town is small, so it's a sparse crowd of children and parents and college students who aren't going home for the summer.

"Why's it so dark?" Enjolras asks. "I don't remember it being like this."

"You were eight the last time you went to a circus, Enjolras." Courfeyrac says.

The question is answered as a spotlight clunks on, a bright circle of white illuminating a man dressed in in a red coat and shiny black riding books, a silver-topped cane in his hand and a squat top hat on his head. He sweeps the top hat off and cocks one heel as he bends in a low bow at the spectators. He pops back up again, flipping the top hat back onto his head and raising his arms to the top of the tent.

"Ladies and gentlemen," His voice rings out across the arena, echoing and full of life. "Boys and girls, welcome to Circus Ultimus! Prepare to be amazed, amused, astounded and astonished by the acts you are about to see! You will witness scenes thrilling and dangerous, fantastic feats that before your very eyes! So, on with the show, and let the circus begin!"

The bright spotlight cuts out, and the audience is left blinking at the darkness. A small murmur ripples across the crowd. Then a spark jumps out in the dark, and from that spark a small fire grows, hovering above the ground. It lights up the red and gold pant leg of someone. A second ball of fire drops down on the other side, and then the little flames begin to spin, illuminating body parts at random intervals. Fire wraps around wrists before loosening and flinging away,

The circles of fire cross in front of their puppeteer, making the illusion of wings flapping and lighting up the spinner's face. There's a hum of appreciation from Courfeyrac. The face glowing orange in the light is thin and effeminate, long wavy blonde hair tied back from the flames, a small secretive smile on the lips. The ropes shorten and suddenly the the fire is spinning in tight circles, inches from that pretty face as the man bends backward and the audiences 'ooh's appreciatively.

In the darkness at the floor, another little ball of fire appears. Then another, and another, until a ring is lit up with five points of fire around it. The spinner passes the two swinging balls of fire off to the hands that had lit the ring and picks up the hoop. He spins it around his wrist as he walks in a circle, showing off to the audience. In a flash, it's over his head and around his waist, and he circles his hips to spin the hoop around and around. It moves upward, circling his shoulders, his neck, and he raises a delighted grin to the audience as he lifts one hand towards the ring, and suddenly there are two hoops of fire spinning. One slides back down to his waist as he lifts the other one higher as it spins around the wrist of his raised arm. Then he begins to walk, bring both hoops around his body and spinning them in counterpoint. Enjolras can feel Courfeyrac squirming in his seat, and he rolls his eyes. The man is attracted to everything. The hoops travel back up the lithe body, up the raised arms until their spinning around the fingertips of two hands pressed together. Suddenly, those hands drop, and so do the hoops, circling in the air, spinning down with the young mans body passing through, and they land in the dirt with a soft thud, extinguishing together and tossing the arena back into darkness. The crowd roars and Courfeyrac sighs.

There's moment of silence before the lights burst back on, illuminating a cage containing two lions in opposite corners. A girl in blue with long golden hair stands in a third corner. She strides up to a platform in the middle of the cage, black whips in either hand. The lions' golden eyes watch her. Whether they're wary or captivated, Enjolras cannot tell. The whips swing in the air in some visual symbol that the big cats see, and the trot obediently to the platform. another swish, and they've laid down, rolled over, stood on hind paws. They drop down off the platform and sit obediently in front of it, watching the golden-haired tamer. She drops the whips and comes to stand between them, holding out her hands over their heads. They press against her hands with audible rumbles, and she scratches them behind the ears. She pulls another whip from the hip of her costume and the lions stand on their hind legs again, front paws in the air, then pace back to their corners and lie down. The girl's smile is large and playful as she stands in the center of the cage and bows to the audience, and they hoot and clap in amazement as the lions watch her with serene eyes.

"Quite a woman," Courfeyrac jokes.

"Courfeyrac don't even think about it." Combeferre deadpans without taking his eyes off the center of the ring.

"But--"

"Shh." Enjolras hits Courfeyrac's shoulder to quiet him. "The next bit's going to start."

This time, the lights don't go out. They only move over, to spotlight on a single hoop held above the ground by a pair of ropes. A man appears from the shadows and moves into the brightness, stepping gracefully into the circle of the hoop, his hands grasping the ropes. His costume is skin-tight, an olive green the seems to grow in the light, but his shoes are purple, and purple ribbons wrap their way up his arms. His dark hair is pulled back from his face, and he peers out at the audience like some sort of night creature. Enjolras nearly misses the telegraphed jump before the man has flipped himself upside down, legs wrapping around the rope above him to stay steady. He reaches one long, slender arm out to grip the top of the hoop, and a woman glides into the light. She is wearing purple, and her shoes and arm ribbons are the same green as the man's costume; her dark hair has been tied back in braids wrapped around her head.

The woman sits inside the hoop, gripping the metal behind her head and bending her knees to fit inside the ring. The two acrobats stare at each other, faces inches away, tiny secret smiles on their faces. Gasps fill the crowd as the ring begins to lift, going up, up, up into the air as the spotlight follows them. The man's hand that has steadied the ring suddenly moves, and the ring is spinning, spinning with the woman inside of it. He flips himself upright, muscles barely straining, and stops the spin with his foot, sliding into the splits on the horizontal hoop as the woman pulls herself round to join him. They flip, hanging together by the ropes on either side of the hoop, one leg bent and toes pointed, hands stretching towards the audience as if wanting to dive away.

"This is amazing!" Courfeyrac whispers in his ear. Enjolras only nods. The woman in purple is good, is graceful and catlike and sleek. But Enjolras cannot take his eyes off the man. He moves like water, like wind, like he was born to twist himself in the air. His green-clad limbs are like vines, moving fluidly from one action to the next, winding around the ropes and the hoop and the girl.

He slides down the hoop, spinning himself and gripping the metal with his knees, and the woman slides down his body, legs hooked around his hips, until their hands are twined tightly together. Then her legs release him, and she drops, hanging from his hands. She points her toes, doing the splits in midair before twisting her legs like a dance. Enjolras hears Combeferre whisper "Wow," beside him. The girl has folded herself in half, and with a tug from the man's arms, her legs are wrapped around the ropes and he is flipping himself backward through the hoop. They spin and twine around each other, slow and strong and lithe, and Enjolras cannot look away until the hoop slowly sinks to the ground and the two dismount, bowing low and disappearing again into the darkness before the audience has any time to properly react.

The the crowd bursts, yelling and stamping their feet, almost missing the clowns that tumble out as the stage brightens again. Enjolras pays little attention to their act. He's never been a fan of clowns. It's not that he's frightened of their makeup like some people. It's that they're far too cynical and cruel. They laugh at each other, at the audience, they kick and punch and shove and accuse and cheat and lie. The audience laughs at their misbehaviour, and they grin and give a thumbs up and continue to beat their comrade over the head, or toss popcorn on a spectator, or whatever it is that they're doing. Enjolras doesn't enjoy clowns, so he squints into the darkness for the man who moves like water.

Courfeyrac seems to notice Enjolras' tension. He leans over with a grin. "Enjolras, are you _scared_ of clowns?"

Combeferre, distracted by the question, cocks his head. "I didn't take you for a person with that sort of fear."

"I'm _not_ ," Enjolras shoves Courfeyrac's face away from his with a palm on his friend's forehead. "I think they're terrible. They represent the worst part of humans and of humanity. They're disgusting."

"That's why we laugh at them," Combeferre says. "They do things we see as wrong, but they think it's right, and it's ridiculous. They do the terrible things we sometimes want to do, but they lack the conscience and judgment to hold back."

"Now doesn't _someone_ sound like a textbook?" Courfeyrac quips. "It's summer, quit philosophizing."

Enjolras breathes a sigh as the clowns disappear and a pair of ribbons comes tumbling down from above. He sits up straighter, hoping to see the man in green, but instead it is the woman who steps out from behind the curtain of cloth, grasping it with her hands and beginning to climb up it. She spins, wrapping the silk around her waist, letting go and dropping a few feet as the audience gasps. She moves along the cloth as if it is an extension of herself, twisting and turning and lifting and dropping. She is beautiful, and the act is lovely, but Enjolras wants to see dark eyes and long, lithe muscles. He doesn't know why, but there was something hypnotic about the man in green.

The next act contains someone new. The man who steps out into the light is huge, long dark hair tumbling around his shoulders. He looks like a tiger made human. He tosses his hair back like a wild horse and steps up to the huge dumbbells on the side of the ring. He lifts the great big weights for the audience, grinning maniacally, barely breaking a sweat as he raises the dumbbell above his head with one hand, the other hanging casually at his side. When he's done with the weights, a boy runs towards him from the darkness. He leaps, and the man catches his hands, lifting him straight into the air, up up up until both of their arms are perfectly straight and the boy's body is a straight line above him. The audience hums, and the boy's legs drop into splits. The strongman's grip doesn't waver, and he marches the boy around in a circle, showing off to the audience. With a loud grunt, he hefts the boy up with a jerking motion, and the boy lets go of his hands, flipping out of his grip and landing on the ground with both feet. They turn to the audience with their arms raised, and the sound of clapping drowns Courfeyrac's words.

The lion-tamer woman and the man with the fire are back next, only this time they're riding a pair of horses, leaping from horse to horse, twisting and flipping and hanging upside down, faces nearly touching the dusty thundering hooves. Enjolras winces at the thought of one of those hard feet meeting the soft skin and bone of a face. But the act is full of flash and grace, and the riders gallop safely out of the tent to cheers.

From the dimness, spotlights flick on again and move upward, illuminating a platform high in the air. Enjolras can see the gymnast in green, and the woman in purple, and the strongman, this time in a deep burgundy like wine, his faced still stretched in a grin. A trapeze is held in the gymnast's hands, and Enjolras can see a second one dangling meters away.

There's a "hup!" from some unknown voice, and the strongman leaps off the platform, dangling for a moment from the bar before folding his body and hooking his knees over it. He swings back and forth for a moment before launching himself forward to grab the other trapeze, flipping his legs up and over and pulling himself into a sitting position on top of the bar, using his own momentum to continue the swing.

The woman has caught the trapeze in her hand, and she stands leaning forward, hanging onto the gymnast to keep from pitching over the edge. There's another "hup!" and she leaps into the air as well, swinging in the air before flinging herself off the trapeze, twisting in the air like a corkscrew before she stretches her arms out and is caught by the strongman. He swings her a few times before she flies back to the trapeze and back to the platform. The audience claps and whistles as she lands upright and flings her arms into the air with a smile.

After a lull of switching positions and readying hands, the gymnast takes the bar in hand and leaps into the air at the signal. He twists himself up and around the bar, showing off, before swinging down again and pointing his body like an arrow to swing forward before flying off, twisting and snaking his body like a vine in the air and catches the waiting hands of the strongman, who swings him only once before sending him back, but the gymnast doesn't throw himself back onto the pedestal. Instead, he turns himself around by twisting in the air and catching the bar, swinging himself again. Rather than tuck his feet over the trapeze, the man pushes his arms up straight, lifting his upper body over the bar and then diving over the other side, flipping forward and rolling in the air before coming to a stop by the hands of the strongman. This time he goes back to the platform.

Someone else has joined the woman and the gymnast. It's the fire dancer, decked in a deep blue like the night sky. He grins at them and motions with a hand. The man steps forward again, swings out into the open air and across. The strongman catches the gymnast's legs, holding him steady as they both swing upside down. The woman swings across to meet them, flipping herself forward so that the gymnast catches her hands. Three people swing for a moment, a chain of lithe limbs, before she lets go and swings back to the pedestal, where the fire dancer catches her round the waist with one hand and the empty trapeze with the other, sending it over where the gymnast pushes forward into the air to catch it and return to the platform.

The three bow together and the audience claps and cheers. The woman steps to the front and swings down to the strongman, who catches her legs. Moments later, the gymnast swings out, pushing himself over the bar and leaping out as the woman is tossed up, and they pass over each other in the air as she twists and grabs the bar of the trapeze passing over her head and he grips the hands of the strongman. She swings for a moment, waiting, and then he's out in space again, twisting his body and grabbing the trapeze beside her, and they swing together to the safety of the platform. The fire dancer sends the trapeze out into the air, and the strongman dives for it, flying across the space and onto the platform, where all four performers bow and grin to the screams of the audience.

Enjolras isn't even listening to the ringmaster's finale speech or his appeals for money. He's peering into the darkness where the gymnast and his friends have disappeared, an alcove in the tent where somehow no light is shone from outside or from the spotlights. He's not sure why he's so captivated, but there's something about the man that makes him want to see him again. He looks up into the air, as if the man had flown up there instead to hide.

The audience begins to stand up and file out of the tent to continue with the sideshows as a few men enter the ring to begin setting up for the evening show. Enjolras stares up towards the trapeze at the top of the tent, squinting into the dark. Courfeyrac claps him on the shoulder.

"Come on, then! There are still tents to be explored!"

"Let's go, Enjolras," Combeferre says to him, gentle like a father. Enjolras pushes himself off the stand and follows them out of the tent in a sort of daze.

\----------

Horrendous singing trails out of a falling-apart metal trailer held together by bits of wood planks. Bahorel, Eponine, and Grantaire are lounging together in Grantaire's ramshackle wagon, drinking merrily before the show. They've already stretched and warmed up, now they're warming their insides. They sit on chairs pulled close together in the cramped area of the trailer. Grantaire points his bottle of cheap whiskey at Bahorel.

"Shouldn't you be setting up? Feuilly's gonna kill you for making him do all the work."

Bahorel smirks, lip cricking up to show the canine and incisor on the left side of his mouth. "Feuilly can be angry at me. I'm the one who can lock him out of our trailer."

"You're a cruel man." Eponine scolds playfully.

"And yet, still he stays."

"Costumes on, hup!" Calls a voice from outside. None bother to get up from their seats. Bahorel reaches behind him and pulls out a tight-fitting shirt from its bunched up position behind his back. Grantaire hooks his foot around a wooden crate in which a bundle of green cloth sits. Eponine has her own costume on the floor between her feet.

"Cheers for the air," Bahorel says, raising his bottle of beer.

"Cheers for the air." The other two echo, raising their own bottles of beer and whiskey, respectively. They drink, stand, and pull on their costumes, careless of privacy.

Grantaire waits in the shadows for the moment to be allowed to fly into the air and do what he does best. A black leather jacket cloaks his green costume, and he slides a hand into one of the pockets to find a silver flask and take a few long gulps. He always performs better with booze in him. It loosens him up.

"Let's go, R." Eponine brushes his arm as she passes, and he tosses the leather jacket to the floor to join her in the ring.

Grantaire doesn't normally look at the audience when he performs. It's a habit from before he joined, one that's hard to break. But something feels different this time as he twines his body around the hoop and around Eponine's lithe body. He glances into the crowd as he and Eponine flip themselves upside down to hang from the ropes, bodies stretching out to the audience. Someone's gaze is hotter on him than usual, stinging like a sunburn. He scans the crowd for a moment, and his eyes are drawn to someone staring intently at him, and he nearly lets go of the rope. The man is beautiful, with golden curls and pale face, straight Greek nose and full red lips and Grantaire feels like he's being stared at by a star or one of the Christian angels his parents used to talk about before he realized it was better not to listen to those stories.

He looks back to Eponine and concentrates on the performance, concentrates on putting all the grace he has into his movements, and the man's eyes burn into him. He feels like his limbs are on fire from the gaze. When their routine is done, they escape back into the hollow dark of the tent corner, and he pulls the jacket back around his shoulders. He peers out of their cave to look to the lighted faces of the crowd in the stands, and sees the golden man peering into the darkness as if searching him out. Something pulls him forward, but he resists and shrinks back again to the wall.

It's easier not to look at the crowd when he's on the trapeze, constantly having to keep his eyes on Eponine or Bahorel or someone's hands. He can still feel sparks dancing across his skin as he moves, but this time he's ready for them, and they feel more like crackles of energy that make him more eager to move than like burning fire.

"Are you feeling all right?" Eponine asks as they gather their belongings from the dark.

Grantaire stops with one arm in the sleeve of his jacket to consider the question. There's a strange feeling is his chest. Not a tension, like he'd usually have if he felt threatened or watched. It's lighter, more hopeful. He's not sure what that means. "I don't know. There was someone here watching me. Felt different from usual."

"Someone you know? From-- from before?"

"No, I don't know him at all. He was gorgeous, though."

Eponine rolls her eyes and shoves his shoulder. In the dark, he helps her peel off the tight costume so she can replace it with a pair of blue jeans and a torn men's shirt. He tugs off his own costume and pulls on street clothes, stuff the purple ribbons for his arms into a pocket. Then he runs out to say hello to Cosette and her lions. Specifically his favourite. Catherine. Albertine, the other, was a bit out of sorts and rarely responded positively to anyone but Cosette.

"Where are you going?" Eponine calls.

"Haven't gotten a chance to hang out with Catherine for a while."

Eponine shakes her head. "Catherine. What a silly name for a lion."

"Hey, I like it! And Cosette likes it! It's her lion."

He heads off in the direction of Cosette's corner. He'll head out to the caravan circle in a moment, but there's a big cat he needs to scratch and Cosette's voice always seems to help level him out after strange moments in the air.

\-------------

Enjolras finds Combeferre standing on an old rubber tire in the grass, looking around as if searching for something.

"Combeferre?"

"I've lost Courfeyrac."

"And?"

"Who knows the trouble he could get up to around here? We've got to find him."

Their friend is not by the concessions, nor is he near the sideshow of burlesque ladies and jugglers. They're walking in circles, and Combeferre is beginning to look worried, when a familiar laugh echoes around them. They follow the sound through a peeling, hastily set-up gate to find themselves in a cluster of little wooden and metal trailers and canvas tents, and a little circle of benches made from planks set across righted logs. Courfeyrac is sat on a bench opposite a man in overalls and a greasy white shirt. The man is peeling a large bucket of potatoes and laughing, and Courfeyrac gestures them over when he notices their presence.

"Hello, my dearest friends! I have just met the most exceptional young man over here." He nods to the potato-peeling worker. "This is Feuilly, and we've been discussing travel and work, and Enjolras, what he has to say may interest you."

Enjolras raises his eyebrows at Combeferre, who shrugs, and they move to sit beside Courfeyrac, across from Feuilly. The man pushes his red hair away from his forehead and stares at Enjolras for a moment, before breaking into a smile and gesturing towards him.

"He's certainly got fire. Hasn't said a word and he's already flaming."

"I said so," Courfeyrac responded. "Go on, Enjolras, tell him what you're planning to do with your law degree. Or what you're going to do well before you earn your degree, if your enthusiasm has a say."

"I want to campaign for better working conditions for everyone here in the states." Enjolras starts, feeling almost self-conscious of his ideas with this hardened worker watching him. "Children in factories are losing fingers or lives from the machines. Men in coal mines go almost as fast as the coal comes up. Fruit pickers are starving because they're unable to even afford the food their harvesting. I want to ask laborers to band together and demand better working conditions. But I don't have enough contacts or enough information to build a strong enough argument for the case. I've only ever lived here and in the city."

"And you ain't worked a day in your life, have you?"

Enjolras frowns, but finds himself unoffended; Feuilly's voice had been gentle, not insulting. "I have a job at the local convenience store, but that's nothing like those other jobs."

"You're quite right, it's not like those. But I understand. You want to help."

"Yes."

"It's possible I could help you."

"Really?"

"A-yuh." Feuilly nods and squints one eye up at them. "I travel with these folks. We don't talk to locals much but we see a lot. I ain't a performer. Means I stay in the back here or wander around in town drinkin' and such."

"How would that help?"

"I could talk to locals about their work conditions and such, tell them about your plan. Send you a letter or postcard with the information I gathered and a few names."

"All right."

"And you can get in touch with those people, send them your plans or whatever it is you want to tell them. Get them to help you."

"Will people want to talk to me, though?"

"Only the strongest or the angriest, I should think. People might be afraid of losing their jobs. But the ones who're pissed off enough or gutsy enough'll do it."

"I'd like that. Should I give you my post address?"

"Sure thing."

A gate rattles and the gymnast strolls into sight, stuffing a thin silver flask into his pocket. He notices them and grins, weaving around a cluster of extra stakes hammered into the ground to join them. He claps their new-found conversational partner on the shoulder.

"Feuilly, you dog, what are you doing talking to a bunch'a gillies?" The acrobat laughs and sits down beside Feuilly, snatching up a potato and a knife and getting to work. He looks up at them again, waving the knife in circles with a twist of his wrist. "I'm only kidding you. Hello there."

He's changed out of his skin-tight green performing outfit into scuffed and dirty jeans with wide cuffs and a black t-shirt with a tear on the shoulder. His dark hair is a mess of curls. Up close, Enjolras can see the dark circles around his eyes and the tired pull of his mouth, but his body is healthy and lithe.

Feuilly gestures at them with the knife each in turn before he goes back to skinning the potato. "Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Enjolras. We're talking about working conditions across the country and Enjolras' campaign for a worker's revolution of some sort."

"I'm Grantaire. I hope you're not trying to get people like us to go into a nine-to-five or something like that?"

"No, we just want workers to have humane and comfortable conditions." Enjolras answers, but he feels scrutinized under Grantaire's dark eyes.

"Hm." The performer goes back to peeling potatoes while Feuilly jumps back into their original conversation. Enjolras writes his address down on the back of his ticket and hands it off. Eventually, Courfeyrac jumps in to start a new conversation and Enjolras turns his attention to the acrobat sitting in front of him.

"You were amazing up there," he starts, and Grantaire's brows rise together as if he wasn't expecting a compliment. "It's like you were born to be up in the air. How did you learn to do that?"

Grantaire shrugs, looking down at the potato in his hand. "I've been doing it for a long time."

Enjolars can see his eyes shuttering, his guard going up, and sits back awkwardly. "Well, I was really impressed. It looked beautiful."

"Thanks." He tosses the peeled potato into the bucket and sets the knife down behind him, digging in his jeans pocket for a lighter and a box of cigarettes. When he pulls them out, a piece of paper flutters down onto the grass. Enjolras picks it up and smooths it out as Grantaire lights his cigarette and tags a long drag.

 "You draw? No, thank you." He shakes his head when Grantaire offers him a cigarette.

"Yeah, it's a hobby." He answers, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he catches another potato from Feuilly. "Took an art class as a kid and figured I liked it enough. Now I see enough interesting places and people travelling around that there's plenty to draw."

The little doodle is a detailed scene of a woman bent over a water pump, hair falling out of her bun as the cool liquid rushes into the bucket she holds under the spout. Her denim overalls are floppy and too big, and the cuffs are rolled up to the tops of her boots. Her expression is one of tired introspection as she waits. In the distance, there's a barn and rolls of hay stretched along the horizon. It's a desolate scene, dark but strangely peaceful.

"You don't sell your drawings?"

"No, people don't want to buy art. They want to see action. That's just a stupid sketch anyway."

"This is a _sketch_? Wow. I know I don't know much about drawing and art, but this is damn good for a sketch."

"You're just full of compliments today, huh?"

"I tell people when I like what they do. Just like I tell people when I don't like it."

Grantaire grins this time, relaxing. The smile makes Enjolras feel happy, but he's not sure why. "Sounds like a comfy life."

"It can be."

"Hey, listen," Courfeyrac pipes up once his conversation with Feuilly has died down. "I know you folks have a show later this evening, but do you want to go out for a drink with me and my friends afterward?"

"I'm not opposed." Feuilly nodded.

Grantaire cocks his head to the side and grins crookedly. "As long as I can bring my friend Eponine-- she's the one who does the trapeze with me-- I'm game."

"It's set, then." There are handshakes all around, punctuated by smiles. The handshake Enjolras receives from Grantaire as he begins to stand is longer, gentler, warmer than it should be, but for some reason he doesn't mind. He joins Courfeyrac and Combeferre as they begin to walk away, the promise of drinks and conversation a low buzz in his body. He feels like he might be walking in the air, like for some reason his feet aren't quite hitting the ground. It's a strange feeling, but he thinks he might like it.


End file.
